


Our Worlds Move On

by engagemythrusters



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, Friendship, M/M, Post-Series 03: Children of Earth (Torchwood)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26128402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engagemythrusters/pseuds/engagemythrusters
Summary: What was the point of letting things lie, of letting the world stay wrong, when one had the perfect chance to fix it? Wasn't it best to make things right again? Gwen thought so.
Relationships: Gwen Cooper/Rhys Williams, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69





	Our Worlds Move On

Gwen Cooper sat on the sofa, staring at the blank wall in front of her, her hands wrapped around an empty coffee mug.

She had a set of these, once. Two rainbow-striped mugs. They came as a flat warming gift, and they had sat in the cupboard, collecting dust. Then, she got a new job, and someone kind asked her if she wanted her coffee delivered in one of her own mugs. At long last, she had use for the shitty mugs she never touched, so she’d brought one in. She figured if that one ever broke, she’d get the other one down and pray that one broke too, so she could finally be rid of the pair.

That mug had survived two years without cracking, chipping, or wearing down. Not even a stain tarnished the cup, thanks to thorough scrubbing from the most diligent and efficient hands. And it had become her most favourite mug in the entire universe. Not a single mug mattered to her more than that one.

But, one truly shitty day, that mug blew to bits.

Now she only had its twin, still unused to this day. It seemed unlikely she would ever use this one. Certainly not now. She wasn’t allowed coffee, not in her condition. Her doctor said so.

No, not _her_ doctor. Her doctor had long since gone. Vaporised. This was just the doctor meant for her baby, no more, no less. Gwen held no regards for the man otherwise.

Her fingers curled tighter around the mug, feeling its unfamiliar familiarity.

Christ, she really wanted a coffee. She wanted a coffee more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. But every time she went out to buy one from a café or a coffee shop or anything of the sort, she was reminded of three things. First, she was still not allowed to feed her baby caffeine. Second, that coffee would never hold even a candle to the coffee she had grown accustomed to. And third (and most importantly), every time she thought of a having a coffee, her heart tore itself apart.

She blinked, and tears leaked down her cheeks. She lifted the cup to her lips, miming an action that once brought her comfort and happiness. It only brought her pain now.

Everything hurt.

Far away, almost in another world, the front door opened and slammed shut. Footsteps followed, coming towards her.

“Gwen?”

She said nothing.

“Gwen? You there?”

She tipped the mug up, drinking from absolutely nothing.

“Oh, there you are,” Rhys said.

The mug dropped to her knees, and she looked up at her husband.

“You alright?” he asked, but the question dwindled and died on his lips. He looked down at his feet for a moment, then back at her. “I see you’ve finally started unpacking the mugs.”

Mug. Singular.

“You should probably be doing that in the kitchen,” he said with a smile. “Otherwise you’ll have to pack them back up to move them there.”

The joke didn’t reach. It was a good effort on his part, but not much could make her smile anymore. Not even Rhys Williams being his usual good self.

Rhys bent down and lifted the box of mugs. “Dunno why it took you so long to open these. I was getting tired of drinking my tea from wineglasses. But, hey. Last box, yeah?”

He turned and took the box to the kitchen to unload. Gwen ran her fingers around the mug’s handle.

It wasn’t the last box. There was a box in the basement that had yet to be touched. It bore the words “IANTOS FLAT” in bold, dark, angry ink, and it would never be opened. It would collect dust and the mice would chew holes in the corners, but its contents would not see the light of day again.

Gwen set the mug down on the sofa, then stood. She went into the kitchen, stole Rhys’s keys while his back was turned, and made her escape.

At first, she just drove. Not a single destination in mind, she started the car, pressed the gas, and just drove down the road until she found a turn, then took the turn and kept driving that until she reached another turn, and another, and another…

Then she found a will to be somewhere, and she turned the car around and drove there instead.

Turbulent, dark clouds blocked out the sky, and that was likely why there was not one single soul in the cemetery. Just Gwen and the dead.

Gwen didn’t walk to any graves, because that much walking wouldn’t do. Her body was too heavy for that now; the baby wasn’t exactly willing to let Gwen do much anymore. She stood at the edge instead, looking out over all the headstones.

She couldn’t help but wonder, not for the first time, how many were there because of event she could have stopped. Events she _did_ stop, but not without loss. She’d lost count of the bodies she’d helped dump, of the minds she’d retconned, of the end-of-the-world scenarios. How vile and disgusting was she, that she couldn’t remember? How vile and disgusting had _Torchwood_ been?

There was one headstone out there that would kill her to see right now. She could see its general location, off in the distance, but knowing where it sat in the ground was nothing like seeing it. Three months had gone by since she’d seen it. The flowers she’d laid were likely long since removed.

A chilly wind whipped her hair around. It was abnormally cold, even for February. Maybe that’s what life was just going to be like, now. Eternally cold, without Ianto Jones.

How was she supposed to do this? Live on in this cold, lonely, bitter world? Contrary to someone’s beliefs, the end was not where she started from. It was where she lost herself and couldn’t find her way home again. Her home didn’t even _exist_ anymore.

She couldn’t do this.

Gwen got back into the car, snapping the door shut behind her.

She put the keys in the ignition, but she didn’t turn them. She sat back instead, ideas racing through her head.

None of these were new thoughts. She’d had _months_ to think these over. And over and over and over. She already figured it out in her head a long time ago, as a painful passing fancy.

She had looked the inventory of the remaining artefacts, hidden away in the last few warehouses. She went and inspected every last item on her own, because Jack had fucked off to space and Ianto was… she inspected every last item on her own. That was all that mattered.

But she’d seen something, in that small pile, that had made her mind reel for so long after. A Malaikanian transporter. Evidently a time-travelling piece of tech, but only to the past. The hand that wrote the notes was apparently quite peeved it only went backwards, never forwards, and deemed the artefact utterly useless. She knew that hand. She knew what it had wanted, why it was pissed off. But she was less annoyed than Jack had been, because she had absolutely no interest in the future or some space-dwelling quack who abandoned him and Earth countless times.

And she was _very_ interested in the past.

Gwen started the car, determination giving her momentary strength and energy. She stepped on the gas, the tires squealing in protest as the car jolted forward faster than it wanted to go, and sped out of the cemetery. 

The drive went on for ages, but Gwen didn’t care. She could drive as long and as far as possible and she still would not care. Unfortunately, the piece of shit disguised as her older car couldn’t go long or far, and did absolutely care. But she would get out and push, baby be damned, if it meant she got to where she needed. But two stops at a petrol station saved her from that struggle, thankfully.

The warehouse was old and worn-down. If she remembered right, this warehouse was mostly empty. The small office in the back was stocked with the hidden artefacts. She slowly made her way to the office, then searched the hidey-holes and drawers until she found what she wanted.

She was tempted to fiddle with it then and there, to figure it out, but she knew she had to wait. Wouldn’t do to show up in this past with no way to get away from the bloody warehouse.

Gwen sighed, then took the long trek back to her car even more slowly. She got back in her car and drove off, altering her return journey slightly.

When she next stepped out of her car, she stared at the playground equipment for a moment. Two kids, sitting tandem, slipped down the slide, squealing excitedly as they did so.

She looked down at the piece of tech in her hands. It was spherical, purply, with three little knobs and a button. Gwen figured the button meant “activate,” but she hadn’t a clue what the knobs were for. Used to be that would clue her in that what she was about to do was dangerous and foolish, but she was adamantly set on this.

Fiddling with the knobs, she set them as low (she hoped that was low, anyway) as possible, then twisted them ever-so-slightly back a bit. Hopefully that would give her just a few years off.

Gwen pressed the button.

* * *

Honestly, the transport just made her feel nauseous and queasy, which wasn’t exactly a new feeling to her. At this point in her life, she had plenty of that on her own.

Gwen blinked at the park. The children were gone; the playground was barren. Well, she supposed the time travel worked, then. That was good to know.

She moved from the small car park to the paved path, keeping an eye out on the playground.

Ianto had said he’d spent time here. Lots of it. To get away from home, she gathered, though she never asked why. Maybe she should have. It seemed she had never asked him enough questions.

_Who were you, Ianto Jones? What were you like when you were eighteen? What sort of person were you? Who were your friends? Who did you want to become? What were your wishes, back then?_

Too late to ask now.

Or, maybe not… that was the point of coming here.

She would save him, and then she would ask him all the things she never asked before. She promised that to both herself and the spirit of Ianto.

Not a soul existed within her sight as she drew closer to the park. She glanced upwards. The sky hung with overcasting, grim clouds, but she knew foul weather well enough to assume that it likely wouldn’t rain down. At least, not any time soon.

Ianto would like this weather, she thought to herself. He always had a penchant for dressing like it was cold and rainy out, even in the dead of summer. She almost smiled to herself, remembering the blazing hot afternoon when they’d chased three Weevils in Splott. He’d refused to take his waistcoat off, standing by the SUV and pretending he wasn’t sweating his life away. 

She sucked in a gulp of air, ignoring the quaver in the breath. No time for fiddly little things like emotions to get in her way, she reminded herself as she slowly continued down the path toward the playground.

The thing about said path was that it was wide enough to fit three people and very much out in the open. So, one would think that someone would be rather easily spotted and avoided when walking down it.

Not the case, evidently.

Her initial reaction was terror, because while she wasn’t easy to push over anymore, she still could certainly fall. That would not be good for anyone. But since she only stumbled, the fear faded to rage, and she whirled around to tear a piece out of whoever ran into her.

“Do you have any idea—”

She stopped short.

“Oh,” the boy said, his wide blue eyes staring up at her. “Sorry, ma’am.”

She tried to think of something to say. Anything, really. But she couldn’t.

She knew those eyes. She’d know them anywhere. Piercing blue, with a hint of mystery and a dash of cynicism.

He wasn’t supposed to be this _young_ , was all she could think. She’d aimed for seventeen or eighteen, maybe sixteen at the youngest, but… Christ, he couldn’t be older than _twelve_.

She looked down into those eyes and wondered how a _child_ could have that much pain twisted up inside. Because that’s what the mystery and cynicism hid. The beginnings of loss of hope and faith in the world, chipping slowly and steadily away at him…

_God, Ianto, when had the world torn you apart?_

“It’s alright,” Gwen finally managed to get out.

“Is the baby okay?”

“What?” Gwen asked, dazed by the higher pitch of his adolescent tones.

He pointed at her midriff. “I didn’t hurt it, did I?”

Gwen’s hands immediately jumped down to the large bulge of her stomach.

“No,” she said after a beat. “No, it’s… it’s alright.”

He blinked at her, then ducked his head and made his way off down the path.

Gwen watched him go, her heart beating so fast in her chest. From the bend of his neck and the hold of his head to the slump of his shoulders and the tucked hands in his pockets, she could so easily see how this boy would become the man she cared so much about.

It was all she could do not to dissolve into tears. She pressed her fingers to her lips, willing the sobs to stay silent and still. Her vision blurred slightly, but she blinked hard and fast to keep the tears from falling.

She’d compare it to reopening a wound, but that wasn’t quite right. This one had never closed up in the first place—no way to reopen it yet. No, this was like taking a knife and driving it deep inside, digging further into the wound. It hurt so much to see him again, because it wasn’t even _him_ yet. Almost there, but not quite.

God, he wasn’t supposed to be so young…

At the sound of footsteps, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

She couldn’t believe she knew those footsteps. Just like how she used to tell her mam’s footsteps from her dad’s when she walked down the halls of Gwen’s childhood home, Gwen could place these steady, decisive bootsteps from anyone, anywhere, at anytime.

Gwen looked over to see Captain Jack Harkness halt just feet away from her. She’d be in disbelief, but she honestly couldn’t scrounge any up. Somehow, she’d almost known this would happen. She’d almost _expected_ it.

She couldn’t think of anything to say to him. She tore her eyes away, returning them to the young Ianto Jones, now sat at a table with chin rested on his arms crossed on the table, and he stared blankly out at the playground’s swings.

“Hard to think that he was ever this young,” she said quietly.

Jack didn’t respond. She glanced back up at him. His eyes were trained on Ianto, though they portrayed no discernible emotion. Not happiness, not pain, not anguish or fear or confusion or love. Nothing.

“He probably told you, though,” she said. “You got to know everything.”

“Not everything.”

His voice was as dead as his eyes. It almost made her _mad_. How could he stand here and feel nothing?

Though perhaps, she started to suppose, he’d maybe done this before. He had that wrist strap. He could go anywhere and anywhen. So… maybe he’d come to see Ianto. Maybe he’d stood here and had the same thoughts Gwen had. And maybe that was why he was here now.

He wouldn’t stay for Gwen, but he could come back for Ianto.

Any other time, she’d be hurt by that, but right now, it didn’t bother her. Ianto was the priority. Anything to get Ianto back.

“So, what do we do, then?” she asked, turning back to look at the younger Ianto Jones.

Jack didn’t say anything.

“Well, come on,” she said. “You’re the ex-Time Agent, here. Surely you know what we need to do to fix this.”

Jack still did not respond.

“Kick a pebble in the wrong direction? Step on a butterfly? Bury his shoes in the garden?” she propounded. “Psychologically train him to fear the words ‘Thames House?’”

She whipped around to him when, once more, he had nothing to say.

“Well? What do we _do_?”

“Nothing,” he finally said.

At long last, he turned to her and looked at her. The emptiness consumed his face, reaching from his glance down through his eyes, deep into whatever pocket inside himself that he happened to hide his soul in.

 _“What?”_ she demanded.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Jack told her, plain and simple.

She hated him then. She hated him with every last fibre of her being. How dare he use her words against her? She’d said that, sitting over Ianto’s dead body, because there _was_ nothing to be done. Absolutely _nothing_. But right now…

“What do you mean?” she spat. “There is everything we can do! We can save him, Jack!”

“You know we can’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

Jack opened his mouth, but she held up a finger to silence him.

“Don’t you dare spout some stupid logic about throwing the world out of balance, Jack Harkness. The world is already out of balance. It hasn’t been in balance since the day he died, and you know it. We can fix it! We can save him, and we can _fix it_.”

She took in a rattling breath in, allowing the angry, hot tears to spill down her cheeks.

“We can’t,” Jack said again.

She hated him so much.

“Maybe you can’t,” she said, “but _I_ will.”

Jack snagged her sleeve before she’d gotten more than two steps down the path.

“Let go!” she snapped, yanking her arm back.

“I can’t allow you to change what happens,” said Jack steadily.

“I can save him!”

Jack just gazed unwaveringly down at her, still stony and impassive.

“I can save him,” she said again, pleading this time. “Don’t you want to save him, too?”

“How will you get back?” Jack asked.

The inanity of the question stopped her dead in her tracks.

“What?” she asked obtusely.

“When you came here, did you think about how to get back?” Jack asked. “How you’d get back to Rhys?”

She… had not.

“Or what about how whatever changes you made would affect you?” he continued.

A sinking feeling fell through her chest and she looked him dead in the eye.

“What if,” Jack said, “changing the future this away from you?”

She followed the point of his finger down to the bulge of her stomach.

“Do you want your family, or not?” he asked.

Gwen had never loathed Jack Harkness more in her entire life.

“Oh, you bastard,” she said lowly. “You utter, _utter_ bastard.”

Jack merely stared down at her, ever stolid.

“You bastard!” she shouted again. “How dare you? You don’t give a damn about me! You _left_ me! And now you’re going to leave him, too? Is that it? You’re going to leave us all behind, travel the entire universe, and shit on all of our memories, because god only knows if you ever gave a damn about any of us!”

He didn’t even flinch.

“Did you ever even love him?” she seethed.

And something dark passed across his gaze. A shadow, clouding the soul Gwen was now _certain_ he didn’t have, turning it thunderous and grave.

She turned away from him, too disgusted to look at him anymore. Her eyes found the younger version of Ianto again, and she couldn’t help but die some more inside.

God, she knew Jack was right. She knew it. There wasn’t any way to feasibly do this, was there? Something would go wrong—of course it would. Nothing in this life could be _good_. Not even for those who deserved it most; not even for Ianto Jones.

“I can’t lose him again,” she whispered.

She didn’t know who she said that too—maybe to herself, maybe to the universe, maybe to Ianto’s spirit. But it was Jack who took her hand and held it.

“I hate you.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s time to say goodbye.”

She shut her mouth, because there was no way to say goodbye to Ianto Jones. Not in a way that mattered, or that wouldn’t make it hurt, or that would make it better. Instead, she just observed the boy for those last few precious moments, watching the way he’d sneak curious looks back at Jack and Gwen and then duck away when he realised they could see him doing so. At least she’d have the small comfort of knowing he wasn’t completely and wholly miserable in this exact moment.

And what a miniscule comfort that was.

Jack took the hand he held, placed it on his wrist strap, and teleported them out of there.

* * *

The kids laughed on the playground—the first sign that they had returned. It almost bothered her, to hear them have such fun. How could they have fun at a moment like this?

But the world didn’t know it was missing Ianto Jones, did it? So, she couldn’t be mad. She had no right to be, even if she desperately longed to feel that anger.

Jack began walking back to her car instantly. Gwen just took a moment to stare at the empty picnic table.

Ten, fifteen years ago… Ianto Jones sat there, and was miserable. Ten or fifteen years ago, Gwen had failed to save him.

He would never sit at that table again.

Gwen turned away before she could think anymore of those thoughts and followed Jack to her car.

He had already commandeered the driver’s seat. She didn’t ask why; she merely slipped in the passenger’s side and buckled. The moment she was settled in her seat, he held out his hand expectantly. She passed over the keys without a word. And, when Jack didn’t retract his hand, the Malaikanian scanner, too. He pocketed it, then began to drive.

She kept her eyes on the cloudy Welsh sky for most of the drive, thinking and refusing to think at the same time. She’d banish away most thoughts, though one managed to stick.

How long had it been since Jack had seen her? How long had it been since he’d last seen Ianto? Because he looked… different, now that she had the time to really consider him. Older. Not wiser, really, but he carried more depth.

After a while, Jack broke the silence.

“He thought they were fighting for custody over the baby,” he said. “He said he never thought about it much, but sometimes, he’d remember when he’d watch another couple fighting, and think it was so strange.”

Gwen frowned at him. What? What couple? What baby?

Oh…

She didn’t ask if that’s how Jack knew to get her. She didn’t want to know if Ianto was the indirect hinderance of his own rescue. If he was… well, he couldn’t be, she figured. He didn’t know enough about it to let Jack stop it. Someone else had to have told Jack.

She had to stop that train of thought, because if she continued down that track for even a second longer, she knew she’d start wondering if _she_ had been the one to say something. And she didn’t want to think that.

Her house loomed in front of her when Jack slowed the car to a halt. She gazed up at it. Then she slowly unbuckled and exited the car.

“Go be with your family,” Jack told her, falling into place just behind her.

“My family…” She glanced away from the house, up at Jack. “My family is gone. I buried half of them. Another vaporised before I’d known he was gone. The last fucked off to the stars. And, god, I hope you stay there this time.”

He had no visible reaction to this, so she turned away from him. She heard him step closer, and then a kiss was pressed into her hair. She closed her eyes.

“Live a good life, Gwen Cooper,” he whispered, slipping her car keys into her fingers.

When she opened her eyes and turned around again, a flash of silver light was all that was there to see. Then it dissipated within an instant, and she was alone.

She walked away from it without a single thought. If he could walk away that easily, so could she.

“You alright, love?” called Rhys the moment she stepped inside the house. “You were gone for a bit.”

Gwen went to the kitchen, where Rhys’s voice was coming from.

“Made you some tea,” he said. “Figured you could use some. And I got a bit excited to use the mugs again.”

She looked down at the mug in his hands, held out to her in a kind gesture. Her heart leapt to her throat.

“What did you _do_ ,” she breathed, horrified.

Rhys asked confused, “What?”

She only shook her head, unable to express the boiling rage, agonising pain, and yawning emptiness that absolutely consumed her to see Rhys holding her striped mug filled with tea.

Actually, she could express it quite well.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity’s worth of eight months, she let herself feel it all. She let herself hurt so much that it swallowed her whole, and she cried harder than she’d ever done before. She hadn’t any idea how to stop it, and even if she did, she wasn’t sure she could do it. Everything was too much, and she had to feel all of it.

“Hey,” she heard Rhys say gently above her sobs, “it’s alright. It’s alright—come here.”

Arms, solid yet gentle, folded around her, keeping her safe and secure as her world collapsed even more than it already had.

“What’s the matter?” Rhys asked.

“He’s _gone_ ,” she managed to get out. “He’s gone, and I couldn’t—"

Another sob escaped, cutting off whatever she was going to say. Rhys just held her as she wept on and on, consumed by her grief.

The rainbow-striped mug sat on the kitchen table, growing cold and lifeless as it waited, forever in vain, for its owner to claim it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd had multiple endings for this (Gwen smashes the mug, Gwen takes the mug to Ianto's grave and leaves it, Gwen puts the mug away forever, OR Gwen makes a cup of coffee but leaves it out and never drinks it) and I have no idea why I chose this ending instead. Maybe I'll regret not having chosen another, but! Too late now!  
> Unedited, as per usual.  
> This again happens to fit the Torchwood Fan Fest bingo card I got for the "friendship" box. It's a lot sadder than most "friendship" prompts would've gone, I think...  
> Anyway, thank you for reading! Have a nice day!


End file.
